Silence as I absorbed that information. “What happened when you turned twenty-four?” I asked.
Kawkab Khala smiled slowly, flicking her half-finished cigarette to the ground. “Let me tell you a story,” she began.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, MY FACEwas frozen in a mask of amazement. “You... that didn’t... what...?”
My aunt played with the button of her white silk salwar tunic.
“Why did you tell me this?” I asked after a few seconds of incoherent babbling. I was still processing the remarkable story Kawkab Khala had told me. The details made my head spin, especially considering their context in 1970s India.
She shrugged. “Everyone already knows the story. It is a badly kept secret back home. And I know you are a storyteller, so I thought you would enjoy it. Can you guess the lesson?”
“Always carry a gun?” I said weakly.
Kawkab Khala gave me a look.
“Learn to climb trees?”
“I was thinking of something more relevant, such as ‘Find your principles and see your story through to the end, no matter what.’”
I looked down at my closed laptop, my abandoned attempt at finding a story worthy to launch my broadcasting career, and then back up at her. My aunt was a woman ahead of her time, I realized. She hadn’tbeen afraid to make bold decisions and carry them out with little worry for the consequences. I wanted to live like that.
I took a deep breath and whispered, “Bismillah”—in the name of Allah—to steady myself. “Kawkab Khala, how would you like to be on the radio?”
THOMAS WAS IN MARISA’S OFFICEwhen I arrived at the station later that afternoon. He poked his head into the hallway when he heard my footsteps. “I was just about to text you. Glad you could join us,” he said loudly.
I was late again, and he wanted to make sure Marisa knew it. I tried to muster the energy to be angry at him, but I was too excited about the story Kawkab Khala had told me. It would make a perfect episode for our radio show, if only I could convince Marisa and Thomas.
As I took a seat, they exchanged a glance. “I know you’re not happy with the way things went down with Nathan Davis,” Thomas said.
I frowned at his understatement.
He continued. “Even though it accomplished our goal of getting funding and the executive team’s attention. Marisa and I were thinking, maybe you could tackle something fun and light for our first episode. How about a story about henna designs and the way they’ve changed over the years? We could talk about entrepreneurs and focus on women-run businesses. It would be positive representation, something quirky and relatable.”
I blinked at Thomas. The idea wasn’t terrible, even if it was on the list of stereotypical topics I had expressly told him to avoid. Perhaps it meant they would be open to my ideas after all. “Actually, there’s another story that I think would work really well. I’d like to talk aboutfamilies in the GTA, the way that family background moulds us, hurts us, helps us. The theme would be secret family histories. I would interview parents, grandparents, and kids about a defining experience in their family.”
Thomas and Marisa exchanged another glance, but I barrelled on, full of ideas and excitement. If only they could hear Kawkab Khala’s story, they would understand. “I’d like to start off by interviewing my aunt. She’s visiting from India, and she has the most amazing story from when she was a young unmarried woman.” I quickly filled them in on the remarkable story Kawkab had shared. When I finished, I waited for their enthusiastic response.
Instead, my boss and fellow intern remained quiet. “How do we know this story is true, Hana?” Marisa asked carefully. “Forgive me, but that does not sound like something a young woman growing up in India would actually do, does it? It all sounds quite... progressive for such a conservative country. We don’t want to be accused of fabrication.”
My boss had never travelled to Asia. Was Marisa accusing me, or my aunt, of making up the story? I glanced at Thomas to see if he agreed with her assessment, and he shifted uncomfortably.
Marisa continued. “I suggest we start small and build our audience. Tell our listeners the stories they want to hear, not the ones we wish were true. With two young, diverse hosts, it is important to avoid anything that might be seen as propaganda.”
My head reeled at her words, and again I turned to Thomas, suddenly suspicious. “What story will you be working on while I research the one on henna?” I asked.
Thomas cleared his throat. “That other story Nathan wanted. The one about radicalization.”
“You mean Muslim radicalization, right? Not radicalization amongother groups, like the rise of the alt-right, for instance? Or about how the wordradicalizationhas been used to justify war and the curtailment of civil rights for marginalized populations around the world?”
Thomas shrugged uneasily. “He seemed to be interested in a story that was more... focused and timely.”
I exhaled. “You’re not even Muslim,” I said.
“You could fact-check, darling,” Marisa said. “Make sure he gets the tone right.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want Thomas to get thetonewrong,” I said. My eyes pricked with tears and I stood up.
“Hana, please,” Marisa said. Her voice was so gentle I had to bite my lip to keep from bursting into sobs. “A story about something fun, such as henna, will be more palatable to our listeners, less likely to offend. You could talk about the way henna art has been embraced by regular Canadians. Leave the political topics for later. The key to success in this business is to camouflage the message in bite-size, easily understandable chunks. You understand, yes?”
